


Of Sandalwood and Monster Blood

by cranperryjuice



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sorry Roche, Sorry Triss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12379875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranperryjuice/pseuds/cranperryjuice
Summary: Geralt hates Flotsam. Iorveth makes it better.





	Of Sandalwood and Monster Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is shameless porn. Turn back if that's not your bag. :)

Geralt shook the nekker guts off his blade and wiped the worst of the blood onto his sleeve before returning his silver sword to its scabbard. He was already covered in gore, not only from nekkers but also from the endrega he'd stumbled into half an hour earlier; a few more streaks of blood weren't going to make much of a difference.

Flotsam was a shithole. As was the surrounding forest. Even on a bright, beautiful day, with the sunlight piercing through the foliage and painting the air gold with dust motes, he was stumbling into bandits, traps and monsters every few steps. It was difficult to find caves among the mess, and even when he did, he was hard pressed to find five minutes of peace where he'd be free to grope around for ostmurk. He'd never kill the Kayran, at this rate.

His clothes were sodden and stinking of monsters. Shaking his head, he changed directions and headed toward the waterfall he'd found near some elven ruins. It was much quieter there. He needed a long soak, some food and a few hours of meditation.

He walked at a brisk pace, trying to ignore the unpleasant chafing from his wet clothes, and soon the trees opened up before him and the pond came into view, sparkling with sunshine. Iorveth was standing under the waterfall, washing himself, and it took Geralt a moment to notice the two Scoia'tael standing guard, arrows already nocked and pointed his way.

"Iorveth," one called out.

Iorveth turned to face them, and Geralt held up his empty hands placatingly. "Ceádmil. Peace. Just want to clean up." And he meant it. No matter how much Roche grumbled about them, Geralt couldn't fault the Scoia'tael for trying to get rid of the racist fucks that populated the area. Also, he _really_ wanted that bath.

Iorveth crossed the pond and stood in the thigh-high water, eyeing Geralt measuringly. One side of his face was ugly and scarred, but Geralt's eyes were drawn instead to the leaves that were inked on his skin, snaking from his neck and along his side all the way down to his hip. It was a beautiful piece of work. He had a beautiful body, too, lean and sparsely-haired.

"Fine," Iorveth said, and Geralt flicked his eyes back up to his face. He nodded in thanks and dropped his pack, then unstrapped the swords from his back, leaving them carelessly at the edge of the water. The two guards lowered their bows and, after a few moments, sat back against a large tree root that protruded from the ground.

Geralt kicked off his boots, put one foot into the cool water, then hesitated. "Is this place sacred to your people?" he asked in the Elder Speech. He knew next to nothing about the Aen Seidhe's religious beliefs, but if this was someplace special, it'd probably be rude to add about a gallon of monster blood to the water.

One of the guards scoffed, either at the question or at his Elder Speech. Iorveth raised an eyebrow, something like amusement softening his sharp features. "Thoughtful of you," he replied in Common. "But it's not so sacred that one filthy vatt'ghern will bring it to ruin."

He stepped out of the water and wrung out his wet hair before stretching himself out on a flat, sun-warmed rock. Geralt waded in with all of his clothes on and sat down, blood leeching out of the fabric and tinting the water around him. He sighed happily and splashed water onto his face, rubbing off the worst of the mess.

Once his clothes felt about as clean as they were going to get, he stripped and threw each item out of the water one by one, piling them up next to his swords. Something fell into the water near his elbow, and he felt around, frowning, until his hand closed around a bar of soap. "Thanks," he called out. Iorveth didn't reply.

Geralt went to the waterfall and spent a long time under it, scrubbing Flotsam and its stink from his skin. He stepped back into the water and tossed the soap in Iorveth's general direction once he was done. Iorveth opened his eye at the sound of it hitting the ground, then turned his head toward him. His gaze lingered over Geralt's body. "Better," he said simply.

He could've been looking at his scars, Geralt supposed, except he was used to revulsion and this hadn't felt like it. Maybe the day wouldn't turn out to be a complete waste. He moved a little closer to Iorveth's rock and sat down in the water again, leaning back on his hands and letting it lap at his waist and his arms.

"You let Malena live," Iorveth said.

"Mmhm."

"Not too disappointed, I hope?"

There was something mocking in his voice, but the question was still ridiculously transparent. Cards on the table, then. Geralt shrugged. "Got over it. Didn't look nearly as good as you, anyway," he replied, low enough that the Scoia'tael wouldn't hear.

The reaction was immediate and obvious to Geralt's sharpened senses: a slight increase in his heartbeat, his eyes darkening despite the sunshine. "You don't mince words, do you, vatt'ghern?"

"Had a long day."

"Then we shall end it on a better note." He raised himself onto his elbows and looked at his men. "Leave us."

They went, smirking, and Geralt moved closer still, shifting to his knees and reaching out to run his hand up Iorveth's calf. "I take it this isn't another ambush?"

His cock was thickening already. "If it were, you'd be long dead," he said, then hummed contentedly as Geralt closed his hand around him, his eye sliding closed. "But they'll stay within earshot. In case you try something."

"Won't make you scream too loud, then."

Iorveth snorted, unimpressed, and rolled his hips lazily into Geralt's grip. Geralt would've been happy to stay like this, breathing him in and stroking him until he squirmed, but after a moment he pushed his hand away and sat up, scooting back to make room for Geralt on the rock. "Come."

Geralt pulled himself up and stood in front of Iorveth, whose mouth curled into a smirk. "So there is one part of you that isn't scarred," he said with Geralt's erection at eye level.

"Look again. Left side, right where--" Iorveth put his tongue on him, wet warmth trailing up the left side of his cock, and Geralt nearly lost his footing. Iorveth found the tiny scar with his mouth and ran his fingertip over it, then started sucking him. And Geralt was glad he hadn't asked for the story behind it, because warmth was flooding his body and his jaw had gone slack and he really didn't feel up to saying words anymore. Triss hated doing this. It'd been a while.

Geralt watched him, how his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, his cock flushed and jutting out from between his legs, and couldn't resist tangling his fingers into his damp hair. Iorveth glanced up at him and pulled his hands away. He kept his wrists in a tight grip, holding Geralt's hands at his sides, and maintained a steady, maddening pace until Geralt's toes curled and his fists clenched and he came shuddering into Iorveth's mouth.

He sat heavily on the rock, then flopped back half into the grass, panting. Iorveth licked his reddened lips. His fingertips traveled up the inside of Geralt's thigh and slid between his buttocks. "Oh, hell," Geralt said helplessly as one of Iorveth's fingers probed at him, and -- and speaking of things Triss didn't like to do, Iorveth had just put his finger on another one in a very literal way. He bent his legs at the knees, his feet flat on the rock to give Iorveth easier access. Soon he'd worked two spit-slick fingers deep into him and Geralt was pushing back against them, pleasure skittering up his spine every time he angled his hips just right. He'd never been so glad to have a witcher's stamina.

"Turn over, vatt'ghern," Iorveth said, his voice thick with arousal. Geralt rolled over and got his knees under himself. He was acting like a damned troll in heat in the middle of a forest and couldn't find it in himself to care.

Iorveth stood and stepped away from him. Geralt buried his head in his arm and stroked his cock slowly, listening. There was the clink of glass, then a small pop as a vial was uncorked. Iorveth walked back to him, grass rustling under his bare feet, and Geralt smelled sandalwood and something flowery he couldn't quite place.

He jerked in surprise as Iorveth bit his buttock. And then he had to let go of his cock, because Iorveth's tongue was on him, licking at him in broad strokes and dipping into him, and he was teetering dangerously close to the edge again. He groaned in relief when Iorveth finally positioned himself, pushed into him straight to the hilt, slippery with fragrant oil, and started fucking him in earnest.

His knees scraped painfully against the rock as he shoved himself back to meet Iorveth's thrusts. He could've stayed down there forever, clutching a handful of grass and panting into the crook of his elbow, but then Iorveth grabbed a fistful of his hair and _yanked_ , and Geralt became vaguely aware that he'd pushed himself up on all fours and was gibbering in the Elder Speech in an attempt to urge him on. Iorveth's hand twisted in his hair, forcing his head back, and the low chuckle that rose behind Geralt flowed over him like honey and sent a wave of warmth through his body.

 _Smug bastard_ , he thought even as his spine curled and his thighs started to tremble, and if the Scoia'tael somehow hadn't heard the loud, echoing smacks of Iorveth's hips against his ass, there was no way in hell they didn't hear the ecstatic groan that came out of his face as he climaxed without even touching himself, his cock twitching in the air and spattering the rock under him. He might even feel sort of embarrassed about it later, if his brain ever solidified again.

He locked his elbows under himself and shuddered as each of Iorveth's thrusts lit his already over-sensitized nerves on fire. Iorveth pulled him up by his hair and threw one arm across his chest, holding him tight as his hips stuttered to an uneven rhythm, then stopped. Geralt heard his breath catch in his throat and felt his cock pulse inside him. He hung his head and stroked himself slowly through it, drawing out the aftershocks that wracked his body until Iorveth finally let him go.

He flopped forward into the grass and didn't speak for a while.

Iorveth was splashing around in the water, probably cleaning himself. Geralt's knees were killing him. He rolled onto his back, stretched his arm out for his pack, and poured a small quantity of Swallow into his mouth.

"Was that a healing potion?" Iorveth asked. He sounded curious rather than amused, at least, but Geralt shrugged instead of answering. He dropped the vial back into his pack. Iorveth knelt by him. "I didn't intend to hurt you."

"Didn't hurt me." He _was_ hurting, actually, but in all the right ways. The Swallow had taken the edge off his bruised, bleeding knees but hadn't touched the pleasant ache in his muscles or the slow, throbbing pain in his ass. He closed his eyes, sun rays dappling the inside of his eyelids red, and let out a contented breath.

"Good," Iorveth said, then kissed his lips. His hair tickled Geralt's face, and he recognized the sandalwood smell of the oil he'd used on him, wafting lightly from his scalp and the back of his ears. The flowery notes of it were sweet and similar to clover. He groped around old memories of Vesemir's alchemy lessons until it finally hit him.

Lilies.

He laughed at the irony of it. Roche would've ground his teeth to dust.

"What?"

"Nothing. We should do this again."

"Yes." Iorveth stood, then let out a distinctive whistle that pierced through the quiet forest. Geralt was fairly certain the sound would summon his two men back to him.

A minute later, his ears picked up a pair of footsteps and indistinct conversation in the distance. He thought about moving, but decided the Scoia'tael probably weren't going to kill him. Maybe Flotsam wouldn't be so bad, after all. He stretched out in his beam of sunlight and let himself drift off to sleep.


End file.
